Blancmange

IT'S THE UNEARTHLY hour of 8.0 in the morning in some place called Astwick. Your reporter and the two members of Blancmange (both a trifle delicate after the 1000th TOTP celebrations the previous night) are negotiating a greasy motorway caff breakfast. What are we doing in this godforsaken place so early in the morning? As the rain comes down in sheets outside, we're beginning to wonder too. Our mission: to do a day's rambling round some of keen pot-holer Neil Arthur's favourite bits of the Yorkshire dales. Weather permitting, that is...